To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck

by Greta van Der Rol

  Men shifted in their seats. “It’s Pelsaert,” someone muttered. “I thought it was supposed to be Captain Jacobsz.”

  “Let us on board and we’ll explain,” said one of them. His coat fairly glittered in the sunlight.

  “Throw your weapons into the sea and we will welcome you onboard,” said Pelsaert.

  “Throw down the ladder,” said the man.

  “Throw your weapons into the sea,” repeated Pelsaert. “Now. If you do not, we will sink your boat. Captain, be ready to fire your guns on my order. I give you a count of three.” A moment to let them think on it, then, “One… two…”

  “It’s over, lads,” a voice mumbled. The speaker tossed his sword over the side.

  One by one, the others followed suit. One by one they climbed the ladder to stand on the Sardam’s deck.

  “Bind them and take them below,” said Pelsaert. “Then, Captain, you and I should start to examine these men.” He pointed at the man who had muttered that ‘it was supposed to be Captain Jacobsz.’ “We’ll start with that one.”

  Two men brought the nominated scoundrel, hands bound, to the Great Cabin, where Captain Jacopsz sat beside Pelsaert.

  The commandeur looked the prisoner up and down. Thin but quite well dressed, bearded and with downcast eyes. Like all of them, the red coat was decorated, but much less than some. “Your name?”

  “Jan Hendricxsz, m’lord. From Bremen.”

  “Your occupation?”

  “I was a soldier.”

  “The coat you wear. What is it? Where did you get it?” Pelsaert glared his disapproval. He had no doubt where the fine wool material came from; laken was an entry in the Batavia"s bill of lading. Far too fine for a man of such common stock.

  Hendricxsz shifted his shoulders. “We all have them. It’s to show we are part of the captain-general’s group.”

  “Captain-general? What is this?”

  “The Merchant, m’lord. Jeronimus. He was our captain-general. And then when he was captured, Wouter became captain.”

  At least this man’s story fitted with what Hayes had told him. But what of murder?

  “Many people have died here, have they not?”

  A nod, nothing more.

  “Of hunger, thirst, disease?”

  “Some.”

  Hendricxsz’s eyes shifted, looking over Pelsaert’s shoulder and he moistened his lips. Dreading the answer, Pelsaert asked his question. “Did you kill people, here on these islands?”

  “I did, sir. But under orders.”

  “How many?”

  Hendricxsz shifted his feet, licked his lips. “Seventeen. Maybe… maybe twenty.”

  Pelsaert stared at the man’s face and let the number percolate into his brain. Twenty people. But perhaps there was good reason, despite what Hayes had said. Some sort of battle? A fight over food or water?

  “Why?”

  “Because the captain-general… that is, Under Merchant Jeronimus… ordered us to.”

  Pelsaert sucked in a breath. The whole thing was utterly unbelievable. Why, in God’s name, would Cornelisz order deaths? The man was an apothecary, an educated, urbane man; a merchant. His thought formed into words. “Why, in God’s name, would Jeronimus do such a thing?”

  “It all stems from the ship, m’lord,” said Hendricxsz. “Jeronimus was plotting with Captain Jacobsz and the high boatswain to steal the ship.”

  “The Batavia? They plotted to steal the Batavia?”

  “That’s God’s truth as I stand here, m’lord,” said Hendricxsz, nodding.

  And that he could believe, thought Pelsaert, swallowing his amazement. Almost. He could certainly believe that Adriaen Jacobsz would plot against him. He turned to the sailor standing next to the captive. “Get him a chair.”

  Pelsaert leaned across the table at Hendricxsz, now shoved into a chair. “Now, tell me of this plot.”

  “Jeronimus said they had it all planned. But then the wreck happened. He was sure the captain would make certain you wouldn’t reach Batavia, that he’d… he’d throw you over the side long before. And that he’d be back to fetch us. But then Jeronimus said there were too many people and that we’d all die before anybody could get back to rescue us. So Jeronimus said we had to get rid of people so’s there wasn’t more’n about forty of us.”

  Pelsaert listened as Hendricxsz poured out his story, of how people were sent to three other islands. How people were murdered, at first in secret and later publicly. How Wiebbe Hayes and his folk sent up smoke signals to show water had been found.

  “You expected Captain Jacobsz—Captain Adriaen Jacobsz—to return?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what we all believed. And later when people asked what we should do if it wasn’t Captain Jacobsz, Jeronimus said it wouldn’t matter. We’d steal the yacht.”

  By God, it all made sense, thought Pelsaert. Jacobsz and his good friend Evertsz in league with Cornelisz. Yes, they had been friends. Jacobsz had taken the under merchant on his drunken binge in Table Bay. Jacobsz must have persuaded Cornelisz. And hadn’t Cornelisz been friends with van Huyssen and van Welderen? It was all making very good sense.

  “Take him away,” said Pelsaert. He lifted a hand to summon a servant. “Wine for the captain and me.”

  “Hard to believe such horrors, Commandeur,” said Jacopsz.

  Pelsaert glanced at him, an honest man with the blue eyes and blond hair of the north. “We must speak with Jeronimus,” he said. He lifted his pewter goblet to his lips and drank.

  *

  Hayes stood in front of Cornelisz, a triumphant glitter in his eyes. “Get him up. Tie his hands.”

  Two soldiers dragged Cornelisz to his feet, pulled his arms behind his back and bound him, none too gently. The cords cut into his wrists but at least he was still alive. And if they bothered to tie him, it seemed he would live a little longer.

  “We’re taking you to see the commandeur,” said Hayes.

  “Commandeur? Who?” said Cornelisz.

  “Pelsaert. He has come himself, on Sardam. You’ve failed, Captain-General,” said Hayes. He spat the title, made the words into an insult. “Your men have been taken prisoner.”

  Surely not. His men still outnumbered the Sardam’s crew and they had weapons. This was subterfuge. It had to be. “How can you know that?” said Cornelisz. “You were here, celebrating with your men.”

  “I have spoken to Commandeur Pelsaert myself, on board his ship. And we watched from the shore as your men were defeated.” Hayes jerked one arm. “Bring him.”

  Cornelisz did his best to straighten his shoulders as they marched him between men celebrating and jeering. More than one spat in his path. “You’re for the noose"; “Dance a jig for the hangman”; “No, he should be broken, broken on the wheel”; “Rot in Hell, Jeronimus”.

  All foolishness, thought Cornelisz. There is no Hell, there is no Devil. Cornelisz knew it to be true. God worked his will through him. He would survive.

  They shoved him down to the water’s edge and into the waiting yawl. The yacht drifted at anchor, not two miles away across the shallows that connected the two islands. He must not lose his nerve. He still had his wits and his tongue. He could persuade; he always could.

  His escort helped him clamber onto the ship’s sloping deck and delivered him to the Great Cabin, where Pelsaert sat beside a man Cornelisz did not know but assumed was the ship’s captain. He recognised Claas Gerritsz, who had been a steersman on Batavia. Three other men also sat there. A meeting, then, of the Ship’s Council.

  Pelsaert stared at him eyes wide.

  Cornelisz understood. He must look a sight. Hair lank and tangled around his unshaven face, his shirt covered in stains and filth and his feet and legs bare beneath his breeches. The captain wrinkled his nose. He must stink, as well. Pelsaert didn’t look too well himself, gaunt and tired, dark circles under his eyes. But at least he was clothed in a manner befitting a gentleman.

  “Please excuse my appearance, Commandeur,”
said Cornelisz, summoning a smile to his face. “There has been a terrible misunderstanding.”

  Pelsaert sighed and smiled, shaking his head. “Do not bother with your lies, Jeronimus. We have spoken to a number of your followers. How could you let the Devil lead you so far from the path of Christian righteousness, to murder men and women, even children, only for the sake of bloodthirstiness?”

  “I? I killed no one. Not one person as God be my witness, Commandeur,” said Cornelisz. “Yes, people died, but not at my hand, nor my orders. You must understand, sir, I was in fear of my very life. Davidt Zevanck, Coenraat van Huyssen, Gijsbert van Welderen; they ordered the killings. Had I not pretended to support what they did, I would have died myself. It was my duty to lessen the impact of their murderous intent as best I could.”

  Pelsaert leaned across the desk at him, eyebrows lowered. “And you did not plot with Captain Adriaen Jacobsz and the high boatswain to steal the ship Batavia?”

  Cornelisz schooled his features. So Pelsaert had heard that tale. Hope surged. “I swear to you I was never part of a plot. I heard of it only here, on the island after the wreck. I was told that the captain would never go to Batavia, that therefore no rescue vessel would come. But I agreed with Davidt’s plan to seize a rescue ship if one should come, intending to warn the crew and save them before anything could happen. As I would have done, had I been among those in the yawl.”

  Cornelisz studied the men of the Council. At least they were listening.

  “Ask the others,” he said. “Ask them who gave the orders, who led the groups. They have the blood of their victims on their hands; on their clothes. I—I am innocent. The only stains on my clothes are those of birds and fish that I was forced to clean for Wiebbe’s soldiers. And I did that gladly, pleased to be away from the murderers on Batavia’s Graveyard.”

  Pelsaert ran a tired hand across his face. “It seems that as well as recovering the Company’s goods we must conduct a trial. It is late.” He glanced at the two men at each side of Jeronimus. “Take him to join his companions. Keep them guarded.”

  35

  The Sardam’s sailors loaded bread and wine into a boat for the brave defenders on Wiebbe’s Island. “Best if your people stay on your island for a little longer,” said Pelsaert. “Until we have learned the truth about what has happened.”

  “The truth is what we all seek,” said Hayes. “We heard so much as people escaped and came to us. Such horrors they told. But who knows for certain what is truth and what is not?”

  Pelsaert approved of this young man. Hayes had been shaved, had his hair trimmed and now, dressed in clean clothes and with a sword at his hip, he looked the determined leader he assuredly was. The Company should count itself fortunate that a man like this had been here.

  “Come with me in the yawl, Wiebbe,” said Pelsaert. “Tell me what you think.”

  The two men sat together on a bench while the sailors rowed. Hayes told how he and his soldiers had been abandoned and then how refugees from Cornelisz’s island had swelled his band. “But so often, sir, these men were in fear of their lives and did not see what became of the others. Although many who witnessed it told of the fate of those from Traitors’ Island. And the predikant has a tale to tell. Also the women. They were used as camp-followers; all of them.”

  Pelsaert started. “All of them? Even… even the Lady Lucretia?”

  Smiling a little, Hayes shook his head. “From what I heard, the Merchant took her for himself. And the predikant’s daughter was the concubine of Coenraat van Huyssen.” He shrugged. “Although, of course, I don’t know what happened after the Merchant was captured and Coenraat killed.”

  Pelsaert nodded while thoughts tumbled through his head. Horror followed horror. The thought of that lovely lady left to the mercies of these murderous thugs was too much to bear. Hayes’ voice broke into his thoughts.

  “At first some people told us the lady had sided with the Merchant, that she was part of his scheming. For a time I wondered. But then, the predikant came to us and told us the truth of it.” Hayes paused and wet his lips. “At least, so it would seem.”

  No, thought Pelsaert, Lucretia would not have been part of Cornelisz’s schemes. Surely not. She had always been polite but aloof—as much to the under merchant as to Captain Jacobsz, and, indeed, himself. But then, if the choice was Cornelisz or common service… He brushed his ruminations aside. First he had to deal with the remaining scoundrels.

  The two boats were seen long before they reached the island. Cheering voices greeted them as Hayes directed the sailors to the small beach around the point where Cornelisz and his men had landed three weeks ago. Wiebbe’s Army followed their progress along the shore, forty men and more, laughing and jubilant.

  Men splashed through the shallows, lifted Pelsaert, Hayes and Captain Jacopsz and carried them to the land amid cheers and shouts of welcome. Pelsaert opened a keg of wine and everyone drank. Bearded and ragged they were, but clearly better fed than the scoundrels on the Sardam. The commandeur took note of the home-made weapons, the beautiful dry stone fortifications, the hand-carved cups.

  The predikant enveloped Pelsaert in an embrace. “Commandeur,” sobbed Bastiaensz, “I never expected to see you again.”

  “You are well?” asked Pelsaert. He hadn’t even recognised the preacher. Last time he’d seen him, on Batavia’s stricken deck, Bastiaensz had been a solid burgher, of rotund build. Now his clothes hung on him like a sack.

  “The soldiers here have treated me so well after the horrors on that other isle, where I was in constant fear of my life.” The predikant lifted a foot. “See? They gave me wooden shoes because mine own were worn to shreds. I will treasure these, sir, for as long as I live.” He stopped and licked his lips. “My daughter. Have you seen my daughter?”

  “Not yet. But I have heard from those we captured that she is of good health. I have brought weapons for the soldiers here. They will come with me to Batavia’s Graveyard to subdue the rest of the scoundrels,” said Pelsaert. He put a hand on Bastiaensz’s shoulder. “I have heard of your loss, good sir, and I feel your pain. Please—come with us and see for yourself.” He said the words and hoped in his heart that the women were safe and unscathed still.

  Bastiaensz nearly burst into tears. “I will do so and gladly.”

  Hayes waited by the boats with ten men armed with muskets and swords brought from Sardam. Pelsaert noticed some frowns and unhappiness among some of the others. “Is there a problem, Wiebbe?” he asked.

  “Some were disappointed they were not selected to go to Batavia’s Graveyard. I chose men who have been here longest and do not have scores to settle.”

  Pelsaert nodded. A sound decision. While Captain Jacopsz and Hayes joined the soldiers in the Sardam’s longboat with the soldiers, Pelsaert and the predikant took the second yawl, which had belonged to the scoundrels, sitting amongst barrels of bread and kegs of wine.

  “Gijsbert, tell me of what has happened as we travel,” said Pelsaert.

  Bastiaensz needed no second bidding. He told his story, describing the deaths he had seen, the murder of his own family as he sat in van Huyssen’s tent, the treatment meted out to the women, the beheading of an innocent net mender. Tears welled in his eyes as he talked.

  “Ah, Pelsaert, It is a sad and sorry tale of great horror.” He shook his head. “It was if the Merchant fell under an enchantment. When first he arrived on the island, Jeronimus was elected Chief of the Council and he behaved himself very well. He organised the encampment, reduced the numbers on the island by sending groups to other islands and stopped much of the arguing and bickering. And then it seemed as if, slowly, he changed. From the time the people from Traitors’ Island were killed, it was as if the Devil himself walked amongst us. No man knew if he would survive another night.” He shivered, eyes dark with memories. “The nights were the worst. That was when they murdered. The glow of a lamp and the crunch of feet in the stillness will always bring horror to my heart. I would li
e in my bed and pray to God that the light would pass my tent. And the sounds; the screams and cries of those they hunted; their own infernal laughter. For all my life I will hear those sounds.”

  “Was it only Jeronimus?” asked Pelsaert.

  “Jeronimus ordered but he did not do. Ah, he had others more than willing. Davidt Zevanck, Coenraat, Gijsbert van Welderen, Jan Hendricxsz, Matthijs Beer and many others who would beg to kill.”

  “Davidt Zevanck?”

  “Indeed. He was one of the worst, who would kill on a whim.”

  Zevanck. Pelsaert remembered the brooding serious young clerk sitting at the table in Batavia’s Great Cabin, quill in hand as he bent over his accounts. The others the predikant had named were cadets, soldiers, common sailors. But a Company assistant? What madness was unleashed here?

  Batavia’s Graveyard grew larger as they approached. Pelsaert listened to the preacher talk, but his eyes were on the island. As they sailed nearer he recalled that dreadful day four months ago when he had tried to bring water to the mass of people waiting here on this flat, barren speck. Now, a collection of perhaps fifteen or twenty tents huddled together in orderly lines on a corner. Most were quite small but three or four that were larger, were grouped together a little away from the others. People had gathered to watch the boats approach but not to offer the jubilant greeting Pelsaert had received on the soldiers’ island. And so few; so few.

  A dozen or so men wearing the now-familiar red coats hurried forward, pikes and swords at the ready.

  But Hayes was unperturbed. A few of his soldiers stepped into the water and started to load their muskets behind the protection of the yawl while somebody tended to a smouldering wick. Pelsaert, waiting in the second boat that hovered a little behind, approved of their discipline as Hayes deployed them, ready to meet any attack from the men on the little beach. “Drop your weapons,” Hayes shouted. “It’s over. We have Jeronimus and the Stonecutter. Your other leaders are dead.”